


Liasons

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Gay Sex, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Public Sex, pr0n, random adrenaline-fueled hookups after cases again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another “victory fucking!” story that turned into fluff. Enjoy!</p><p>Not beta'd or brit-picked. I'm sorry! I'm just incredibly, incredibly lazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liasons

**Author's Note:**

> Another Sherlock fic to celebrate the fact that Amped got reviewed by fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic over on tumblr. I was very flattered! This one isn't as good, but it's got lots of gratuitous sex and fluff.
> 
> I am currently working on a beast of an epicfic that turned into Mary/John/Sherlock and, frankly, it's better than this, so I will be endeavoring to finish it (it's over 40,000 words right now and I'm only like halfway done with it) and post it here. Once again: not the best writing on Ao3, but not half bad. Promise, I'll be working on it, yeah? :)

It's the thrill of the chase.

Not just the physical exertion, although _that_ adds to the whole experience. It's a rush, closing in on someone, toying with them, like a cat preparing to dine. It's better than any drug.

Sherlock Holmes has spent five years enjoying this rush. He knows that Donovan thinks he's a nutter, that he's going to begin perpetrating these crimes some day. He pities her for her lack of understanding: the crime wouldn't be _nearly_ as fun as the catching. 

He is sure that Donovan is not the only person to think this, and in fact is fairly certain that _he_ is the only man on the planet who gets this, who understands the thrill of chasing down some amorphous bad guy just for the pure thrill of winning, of figuring it all out right on time.

He may have a bit of a hero complex. He may be reacting to primal hunting instincts, a million years' worth of ancestors clamoring at the back of his head, doing a penis-waving, pelvis-thrusting war dance when he finally brings his quarry down.

He may _actually_ be a psychopath. 

Up until he met John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was certain that he was the only person in the world who liked to play this game. Then he opened John Watson like a book and saw himself reflected back.

Oh, not entirely, of course: John cares about things like tact and paying rent on time and elliptical orbits, things that Sherlock _knows_ are irrelevant. What he finds in John Watson is a kindred spirit. John loves the thrill of the chase. John loves the macabre of the crime scene. John loves delving into the deepest pit of depravity and emerging sane. These are all things he will steadfast refuse to admit to himself, but it's a dance he plays willingly, every time.

And just like Sherlock, every time he dives deeper, he comes back a little more unclean, a little more jaded. It's a madness that makes sense in the world of Sherlock Holmes, and it is within five seconds of meeting John Watson that Sherlock decides he must keep this strange little man in his life.

 

When they have been living with each other for a year Sherlock is astounded at the change John Watson has introduced to his life. Not just internet notoriety or an actual signed contract limiting the number of body parts Sherlock is allowed to keep in the refrigerator (he ignores John's suggestion that he might consider purchasing a mini-fridge specifically for his experiments. _Ridiculous_ ), but his general outlook on life.

They both still thrill in the chase: it's not uncommon to see the two of them running off into the night after some lead or criminal mastermind. No, but what John has introduced is his own _presence_. Sherlock knows that John often feels put-upon and thinks that Sherlock doesn't find him to be of any use. John is wrong: Sherlock is now so used to John's affable, unending presence that he finds it hard to contemplate how he ever dealt with crime scenes or life without him.

John is not just his assistant, not just his sidekick, or as Anderson said in one particularly loathsome encounter, his “puppy.” No, John is as needed in Sherlock's life as his arms or his legs or even his very fine brain. When Moriarty caught him and John stepped out from the shadows, for one brief moment Sherlock felt his heart splinter – and then when he saw the semtex strapped to John's chest, his heart _stopped_.

When he rushes to pull the bomb from him, to strip him of his jackets – good God _why so many jackets_ – his fingers are nervous and running on automatic and he is breathing heavily. Sherlock knows that he has a propensity for irrational thoughts at inappropriate moments, but even he is surprised when, unbidden, the image of stripping John of his clothing in a more intimate, less fear-inducing setting rises to the forefront of his mind.

Ruthlessly he pushes it down and launches the jacket away from him. Still not far enough, and they really should leave because if the bomb decides to go off now it will bring this entire athletic complex down on top of them, but all he can do is just, over and over, ask, “Are you alright?”

He is torn between being thrilled that John is okay and wanting to strangle him for risking his life on Sherlock's behalf. Oh, he's _never_ ever wanted to kill someone more than right then: it's paradoxical, actually, because he wants to kill John for attempting something like this, for attempting to put Sherlock's life ahead of his, but the reason he's angry is because he would be furious if John were dead. He's also very touched, and he decides to go with this because it's the least likely to piss John off.

Trying to express his gratitude is the most awkward he's felt since he was a teenager and he is glad that John changes the subject with a joke: Part of the reason he loves him so much.

Oh. _Oh._

There's that rush, though, even though they've got guns aimed at them, and even though his heart is thudding in his chest at the thought of losing John, Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

 

Sherlock knows that the philosophers of the past decided that there are three types of love: _eros_ (love involving the heart and body: sexual love, the kind you find between lovers), _philios_ (love involving the mind: brotherly love, the kind of love you find between close relations and friends), and _agape_ (love involving the soul: the kind of love one feels for God, parents, and personal heroes). Sherlock believes that he loves John Watson, and he believes that both _philios_ and _agape_ apply here.

Despite the erotic image that his very fine mind had thrown at him in the middle of freeing John from his explosive-laden jacket, Sherlock feels that allowing _eros_ to creep into it would cheapen his adoration for the older man. 

That changes the moment he meets Irene Adler. How could it not? It's almost an obsession at this point, now that Irene Adler has awoken the beast within, and because of it, she intrigues him.

How is it, he wonders, that the moment he met her, striding naked toward him in all her glory, that the first thing he thought was how much he would very much like to take John, bent over, right there on those lovely cream couches?

Sherlock has considered himself mainly asexual for his entire life: it just never interested him. But suddenly he has become John-sexual, and it's Irene Adler's fault.

Some kind of pheromone, perhaps.

 

_“We're not a couple.”_

_“Yes, you are.”_

_“Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm **not actually gay**.”_

_“Well I **am**. Look at us both.”_

 

He has just returned home from Kirachi and rescuing Irene Adler. His hero complex is dancing a lovely pelvis-thrusting victory dance and he is on a natural high, although trying to conceal it from John is difficult.

This is _better than cocaine_.

He takes a relatively simple case to expend his energy because otherwise he is going to destroy himself. John is delighted, mainly because it's a lucrative case which will balance out their monthly budget (A long time ago they agreed that John had better take over their finances. Sherlock even had a duplicate debit card made up for him because it got annoying trying to buy things when he forgot he'd handed it over to John two hours previous).

He takes the case and it leads to the two of them running down a darkened alley after a suspect. He gets away, but he drops a vital piece of information which allows Sherlock to call Lestrade with enough proof to arrest the actual perpetrator of the crime.

Sherlock is riding the world's biggest endorphin high, and it is because of this that, in that darkened alley, laughing hysterically at each other from the rush, that Sherlock kisses John.

He didn't mean to: Sherlock fully intended to keep his attraction to his flatmate and best friend a secret until the end of his days. There was no need to ruin their already-amazing working relationship and friendship with something like lust, even if the lust is a relatively new addition. He just, for one brief moment, felt invincible. Sherlock Holmes may as well have been the king of the entire goddamn world.

He leans over and kisses him. Several things then happen in rapid succession: John freezes, Sherlock realizes exactly what _he's_ doing and freezes as well, and a police car turns down the alley, lights blazing.

They spring apart, running toward the police car, where Lestrade will be waiting for the evidence and statements. 

 

John has gone to bed and Sherlock is glad. He does not want to risk his friend overhearing him, not after that ill-advised kiss. 

Sherlock has a very fine mind, of course, and his memory is impeccable: part of the reason he's so good at what he does. So when he goes back to replay the kiss in his mind, he can recall every small detail in full.

That John's lips had been slightly chapped. A small crack in the skin had been forming near the center of his lower lip. He'd been warm, soft, almost inviting until he froze.

Sherlock wishes he could have taken his pulse, but he suspects it would have been a moot point anyway – they'd both been running on an adrenaline high. He also does not wish John to know that he knows that John's resting heart rate is an almost textbook-perfect 65 beats per minute.

Although he doubts John would be surprised.

Sherlock sits in his room and analyzes it, letting it play over and over in his head. Eventually, imagination takes over, and he begins to think of what could have happened if John had returned his kiss, if that police car had not chosen that exact moment to turn down the alleyway.

It's so erotic that it _hurts_.

Sherlock is not a stranger to masturbation, but he hasn't bothered with such nonsense since his hormones first kicked in around the age of 15. For the first time in years he has an erection so intense that he indulges himself, coming quickly from lack of practice and thoughts of John.

Afterward, gasping, he wonders what John and Irene Adler have done to him.

 

The next day he buys John a small tub of Vaseline for his lips and leaves it innocuously on the table next to his chair before leaving on a case.

 

A week later things have settled back to normal and John still hasn't asked him about that ill-gotten kiss. Sherlock doesn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed.

They have chased a suspect down and John was forced to shoot him when he tried to do the same to Sherlock, so they're standing at a crime scene now with an ambulance – the man is still alive – and trying not to giggle at macabre jokes.

“Remember, Sherlock, we can't giggle at crime scenes,” John reminds him, and they giggle some more.

It isn't too far from Baker Street, so when they're done they begin to walk home, the endorphin rush wearing off as they laugh like teenagers from the giddy high. Eventually, John becomes bored of walking and begins to run, and Sherlock chases after him. 

Sherlock is not out of shape (he couldn't be, considering how often he winds up running after something in this godforsaken city), but it is not often that he runs for the sake of running. In this case, he runs because John is running, but it amounts to the same thing.

“Why are we running?” Sherlock asks.

“Because we can!” John pants out, grinning. Sherlock suddenly understands – that endorphin rush, that high from the chase and capture. John is trying to prolong it.

Sherlock grins back and they dash across the streets of London like madmen.

 

Returning to 221B is almost a let-down after their marathon run across the city. It is late and Mrs. Hudson is asleep, or no doubt she'd have chided them for being so loud running up the stairs. 

Sherlock flings the door open to the flat imperiously, and John laughs at him for his theatrics. A warm, happy feeling pools at the base of his spine at John's laughter. It's an easy sort of laugh, the kind that comes quickly and loudly, unlike Sherlock's own laugh, which is a more sedate chuckle. 

They are happy and warm and safe and they've just brought down a criminal network of electronics thieves, and because he's the king of the world again, Sherlock kisses John again. 

Once again, it is completely an accident. Sherlock, so in control of himself most of the time, loses any sense of discretion where John Watson is involved. And once again, John freezes, and Sherlock freezes.

Time stands still.

Then, to his astonishment, John begins kissing him back. It's a frantic sort of kissing, as the shorter man kicks the door behind him shut and raises his hands to the sides of Sherlock's head. He grabs handfuls of his hair and Sherlock tries and fails not to moan aloud.

Out of necessity (John's hands are in the way of anything else), Sherlock's hands lower and rest on John's hips. Some long-forgotten instinct makes him shove his hands up John's shirt, dragging his nails along his sides and down his back, and John moans into Sherlock's mouth. It's the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever heard in his life, and he has a working relationship with a professional dominatrix.

John pushes him backward. They almost trip over the coffee table, avoiding it at the last second, and they land on the couch. Sherlock has a hard time believing he's sitting in his own living room snogging his flatmate, but the evidence is hard to ignore, with John all over him, sweaty and happy and disheveled from the run back.

It's almost desperate, this kissing. It's frantic and lovely and sloppy and before Sherlock knows it John has pulled Sherlock's jacket and shirt off and is running his hands up and down his torso.

Good _God_ , why does it feel so good? Sherlock shudders at the sensory overload – it's too much and it's delicious.

John pulls away from him, sitting back (and in the process putting direct pressure on Sherlock's crotch, although he says nothing) and regarding Sherlock through narrowed eyes. Sherlock gazes back, for the first time in his life vaguely afraid of what someone else may see of him.

His pulse is racing, his lips are swollen from their abuse at John's hands, he suspects he may actually be _panting_ , his hair must be even more disheveled than normal, and his clothing has been unceremoniously ripped from him. He knows what image must be there, but somehow he's afraid that John is going to look at him and _read_ him, look at him and know his heart. It's terrifying.

Slowly, deliberately, John leans back inward and begins kissing him again. Sherlock feels a pang of relief, blacking out briefly from it, before letting his eyes flutter closed and leaning into the kiss.

It's softer, sweeter this time, although no less ravenous. John is kissing him like Sherlock has seen him kiss his girlfriends.

He makes a desperate-sounding moan at the back of his throat at this realization and his blood flows downward, engorging his already half-erect penis. 

John smiles into their kiss but does not pull away. Sherlock cannot decide whether he desperately wants John to keep doing what he's doing, or pull away in horror so that Sherlock can run and hide in his room in mortification.

John's hands have begun an exploration of Sherlock's person that Sherlock is not entirely certain John is conscious of. His fingers flutter up and down his ribs, drawing out gasps from the younger man. 

John breaks the kiss and leans over, nipping at Sherlock's neck. Sherlock arches into the touch, his back breaking contact with the couch in an effort to keep in contact with John. 

John chuckles but presses him back into the couch. Sherlock raises his hands and tries, desperately, to pull John's coat and shirt off. John chuckles again and does it himself: Sherlock's hands are shaking too much to be of much use to anyone right now.

Somehow Sherlock...well, he remembers nearly every day that John was in the Army, but seeing him without his shirt on really drives it home. Beneath those hideous jumpers lurks a well-defined chest and stomach, from years of exercise and running and, now, chasing after Sherlock. 

Sherlock hums in pleasure as John leans back over him to snog him senseless again. His fingers creep over John's chest, sides and back, mapping his body out with his tactile senses and committing it to memory. Sensitive skin ghosts over his gunshot scar, trail down his spine, and finish at the small of his back just before his arse.

John goes back to nipping at Sherlock's neck, now on the other side, leaving small love bites that Sherlock is fairly certain he's going to have to wear a scarf for a week to hide. He doesn't care: it feels amazing.

If he'd known anything sexual could be this amazing he'd have done this _years_ ago.

He reaches up and drags his nails through John's short hair. John lets his breath out with an explosive exclamation of “Shit!” before bucking into Sherlock's hip. He's got an erection, too, Sherlock notices, and it makes his throb in his pants.

He closes his eyes, bites his lip, and moans. John shudders above him, now outright dry-humping him in his arousal. Sherlock knows the mechanics of sex – even gay sex – but the navigation between point A (making out with his supposedly-heterosexual roommate on his couch) and point B (fucking) is blurry. He's not even sure John _wants_ to do this, is totally unsure of himself for the first time in a long time.

He tugs ineffectually at John's belt, leaning up and capturing his mouth in another gasp-inducing kiss. John playfully slaps his hands away and, finishing the kiss, draws back and begins to undo Sherlock's belt instead. Sherlock feels a spike of pleasure shoot through his stomach and then John has completely removed Sherlock's trousers and pants (the shoes got lost somewhere in between the door and couch, he vaguely recalls). He's naked.

Sherlock shivers at the sudden touch of air to his overheated skin. When he opens his eyes from that full-body shudder, he looks at John and realizes what John is about to do. He's kneeling between Sherlock's legs and has just grasped Sherlock's cock in his hands. Sherlock whimpers at the touch and sight.

John smirks at him a little bit and then opens his mouth.

Sherlock's breath leaves him explosively. Without bidding, his eyes close and his head falls back. His mouth is lax. All he can seem to do is making little mewling noises and try to keep from thrusting deeper into John's mouth.

Even Sherlock can tell this is the first time John has done this. It's sloppy and wet and every now and then John tries too hard and gags a little bit, but damn if it doesn't feel _fabulous_. He's inexperienced, but he possesses the same equipment Sherlock has and knows how to tease it.

Sherlock isn't paying attention to anything John is doing other than sucking him off, so he's surprised when a single Vaseline-covered finger slowly finds it's way up his arsehole. He makes a strangled noise, somewhere in between a moan and a yelp, and John chuckles around him. The vibrations from that laughter send shocks through his nervous system, flashing colors beneath his eyelids.

John must have seen something in his face, because he pulls off of Sherlock's cock with a wet slurping noise and instead focuses on working his fingers inside of him. It feels glorious and it leaves him panting and wanting for more.

When he's judged him loose enough, John begins unbuckling his belt. Sherlock feels a brief pang of fear, swallowing it down mercilessly. He pushes the Union Jack pillow down, propping his lower back up to give John better access.

John smears more of the Vaseline (this is not what Sherlock intended it for when he purchased it for his flatmate, but he cannot find it within himself to object) on his cock and positions himself at Sherlock's entrance. Then he looks up and for the first time since they walked into the flat some thirty minutes earlier, they make eye contact.

Sherlock nods, biting his lip in anticipating of the pain. Something about it makes John shudder, closing his eyes involuntarily for a second, and then he's there, pushing past a tight ring of muscle, not breaking eye contact.

He takes it slow, giving Sherlock time to adjust, and only when he's buried to the hilt does he close his eyes. 

It hurt, but it was a delicious, stretchy sort of hurt, and eventually he adjusts to John's length inside of him. John begins to pull out, and when he pushes back in the head of his penis brushes Sherlock's prostate.

“Mmfph!” Sherlock cries, biting down on his own hand to stifle whatever it was he was going to say. Good Christ that felt amazing and John thrusts back in and oh _God_.

Slowly they build up speed, and eventually Sherlock removes his hand from his mouth. He scrapes his nails up John's sides and John shudders.

There's a white-hot heat building up inside of Sherlock, one he knows signals his coming orgasm. He's felt this before, but never this intensely. He drops a hand from John's side to grasp himself in between them, and opens his eyes to look up at John.

John has glanced down to where Sherlock is touching himself, and he lets out a strangled moan and begins to thrust faster, his hips bruising Sherlock's backside in his haste. Sherlock begins to stroke himself, closing his eyes and beginning to chant John's name in time under his breath.

Sherlock feels it, low in his gut, and he opens his eyes when suddenly he's _there_ , spurts of hot come shooting out of him intermittently, hitting himself in the stomach. There's a wave of pleasure, of heat, and he's shaking with it. It feels so good it almost hurts. 

“God,” John mutters. He's still moving inside of him and his face is screwed up in concentration.

“John,” Sherlock groans out.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John says, and with one final thrust he's coming too. Sherlock's mind automatically analyzes the feeling, because it's weird. There's a sudden warm feeling inside of him, where John's come is hitting him, and he can feel his _friend/flatmate/lover?_ spasming against him.

John collapses on top of him, breathing heavily. Sherlock allows himself to put his arms around the older man, lightly, as they both allow their breathing to slow and their heart rates to approach normal.

Finally, John pulls out of Sherlock with a groan, and Sherlock pulls his legs back so that he can sit on the couch. They're both still naked but for their socks, and Sherlock has never felt more vulnerable in his life.

They're going to have to talk about it, he realizes, and he's dreading it. Eventually John is going to point out that he's heterosexual, that he doesn't fancy blokes, and Sherlock is going to have to resign himself to masturbation, remembering this night to fuel his fantasies.

To his surprise, John doesn't say anything. He sits for a few seconds, stunned, and then grabs his clothing and bolts to the bathroom.

Sherlock frowns after him, but he gathers his clothing and locks himself in his room for the rest of the night.

 

It is two days later and they still haven't talked about that night. The next morning John acted as if everything was normal, and Sherlock took his cues from that and pretended it had never happened. 

He was a little bit hurt, but more than anything he didn't want to hurt _John_. He didn't want his friend to feel poorly.

Lestrade calls them later that evening about a triple homicide. It's painfully obvious once they get there what's been going on, and Sherlock leads them on a chase through London, using the homeless network to track down the perpetrators. Once again, they lead the police directly to the criminals and the high is incredible.

They've begun walking home through an alley when suddenly John is pressing up against Sherlock, pinning him into an alcove and kissing him fiercely. They are a mass of lips and hands and legs and suddenly John has his hands down Sherlock's pants and he's jerking him off. Sherlock moans into John's lips.

John pushes his own pants down, retrieving the Vaseline from his coat pocket. This time he lubes up Sherlock's own cock and suddenly Sherlock realizes what's about to happen. He lifts John up (it's not hard; John is very compact and rather lightweight) and braces him against a wall, and John sinks on to Sherlock's cock. 

John's forehead is pressed up against Sherlock's shoulder and his breathing is ragged. There was no preparation this time, John just went and did it, and Sherlock feels like he's done something wrong. John has wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, tensed in pain.

After a few moments, John is jerking himself off and urging Sherlock to go faster (“Faster, God, Sherlock, faster,” breathy little moans that come very close to making Sherlock come immediately). Absentmindedly Sherlock is glad that he has his coat on, because it's really the only thing protecting them from true public indecency.

Not that that would stop Lestrade from arresting them should he happen down this alleyway.

The danger of it turns Sherlock on even more, and without warning he's coming, shooting up into John (into John oh _God_ ) and murmuring nonsense syllables into the older man's ear. John pants, jerks upward on his own cock, and suddenly he's coming as well, his semen shooting out of him and staining Sherlock's shirt.

They stay there for a few brief seconds before they hear sounds of a car turning down the alleyway. 

“Shit,” John mutters, pushing Sherlock away from him quickly in order to pull his pants up. Sherlock does the same, quickly. He buttons his jacket to hide the stain John left behind, shoves his hands into his coat pockets, and pretends to observe an interestingly-colored brick above a garbage bin located in the alcove.

The fact that he and John just fucked in an alcove with a bin present seems ludicrous to Sherlock, but he schools his face into acute study.

“What are you two doing?” Lestrade calls out. Sherlock ignores him and he can hear John making his excuses.

“Who the hell knows?” John says. Sherlock can see him shrugging out of the corner of his eye.

Lestrade laughs and asks if they want a ride home. John declines – Baker street isn't that far, he says. Plus, Sherlock knows, the moment they got into an enclosed area with Lestrade, Lestrade would be able to smell the sex rolling off of them. 

Lestrade thanks them for their prompt solving of his case. John laughs at him, and they pass a few jokes, before the car leaves. John's breath explodes out of him with a whooshing sound.

“That was close,” he says, shakily, sliding down the wall and coming to a rest on his arse on the ground. Sherlock looks at him but says nothing.

After a few minutes, John stands up and they continue on home as though nothing has happened.

 

This pattern continues for several weeks – every time they solve a case, every time they feel that delicious adrenaline high, they fuck. And then they pointedly do not say anything afterward.

John has stopped protesting when people claim they're in a relationship, however, instead electing to roll his eyes in exasperation. Sherlock feels slightly breathless every time this occurs. 

Eventually they _are_ going to have to talk about it, he knows. He's dreading it because for the first time in his life he's really truly content and happy. He has plenty of cases to work on, John is happy with their financial state, and he's finally understanding why being well-shagged is a _good_ thing. John's never been so calm and peaceful at home, and Sherlock wonders if that can also be directly attributed to the sex.

Eventually they wind up in Dartmoor, lodging in a ridiculously quaint little inn and working to uncover the legend of the Hound. The owner of the inn apologizes for not being able to get them a room with a double bed and Sherlock hears John begin to protest out of habit, before he clamps his jaw shut. Sherlock smirks to himself.

They wind up in a room with two tiny twin-sized beds and Sherlock swallows, realizing for the first time since they got there that he and John _would_ be sleeping in the same room together. He forces his heart rate down to something manageable.

He has to be calm for their next objective – breaking in to a secure military facility on Mycroft's name. They manage to get in and out purely on luck – a fan of John's blog happens to be on the roster and vouches for him. It's a very close thing, and he allows himself a tiny exhale of relief as they walk back to their rented Land Rover as he closes his jacket up.

“Oh, please,” John says, exasperated. “Can..can we not do this, this time?”

“Do what?” Sherlock says, confused.

“You, being all mysterious, with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”

Sherlock stares at him. “I don't do that.”

“Yes,” John says, “you do.”

Sherlock feels unaccountably mushy as he gets into the car. John thinks he's _mysterious_.

He shakes his head to clear it. They have stuff to do, things to take care of. He needs to keep his feelings about John off to the side.

It is still a rush, however, and when they get back to their room John pushes him down on his bed, settling in between his legs firmly.

The sex is quick and rough and Sherlock comes so hard his balls ache afterward. They lay there for a second before Sherlock pushes John off of him and begins getting dressed. 

“Wha- Sherlock!” John exclaims. 

“I can't do this anymore, John,” he mutters. He begins pacing, half-dressed.

“I've never seen you complaining,” John says, his face turning purple. He's still naked.

“I can't. Don't ask me to,” he negates, overriding John's objection. He leaves the room entirely at this point, and wonders why it feels like his heart has shattered into a thousand tiny, razor-edged pieces.

 

That very night their friendship is pushed to the brink. John is angry at him, and continues to be angry at him, throughout the majority of the case (The Hounds of Baskerville, John later titles it on his blog), for a variety of reasons that Sherlock knows he's somehow managed to muck up. He screwed up their sex life, he screwed up their friendship, and he screwed up their working relationship.

Sherlock Holmes may be brilliant, he thinks to himself, but he's a total screw-up nonetheless.

He tries to make it up to him. He even sends him to talk to the therapist, the extraordinarily attractive one, in the hopes that maybe hitting off on a relationship with an attractive woman will make John less angry at him. 

He tries apologizing in a sort of roundabout way. That doesn't work either, and of course when he attempts to drug him all bets are off.

Sherlock is miserable by the end of the case and he realizes, even though he and John are on friendly, speaking terms again, that part of it is that he misses that intimacy. Not even the sex – just the skin-on-skin, and how sometimes they even let themselves doze off against each other afterward.

He cannot do it anymore. He can't. He loves John too much to let this continue. He'll get too attached (missing it is only more proof) and eventually John will leave for a woman and Sherlock will be left to the sidelines.

It hurts to contemplate, so he's severing it now.

 

Sherlock plays things close to the vest. It's the way he's always been. For the first time in his life, however, he finds that keeping a journal of sorts is keeping him balanced and sane.

He pours everything into it: his feelings for John, his amazement over their sexual relationship and how it hurt to sever it, how he goes through each day with a sort of ache for the other man that makes him want to bend him over the kitchen table (experiments be damned) and take him right there. 

He writes everything down: How he felt about him the moment he first met him to how angry he was at himself for breaking it off. How he was afraid John would leave him for a woman. How pleased he was when John stopped protesting the accusations of homosexuality and a relationship. The flutter that had lit up his belly when John called him mysterious and cool at Baskerville.

It keeps a lid on things for a few months. It keeps him from seeking John out after these cases. It keeps him from attempting to ruin the relationships John gets into (although John seems to be doing a perfectly fine job of ruining them himself). 

Things come to a head the day that John realizes that the press has, in fact, chosen less-than-flattering nicknames for the both of them. Sherlock is ranting about that horrible hat (he hates that hat and if there's an afterlife he plans to haunt Lestrade for it) and suddenly John turns it into a discussion about how the press will turn on him. 

“It really bothers you,” he says.

“What?” John replies. 

“What people say. About me. I don't understand, why would it upset _you_?”

“Just try to keep a low profile,” John cautions him. Sherlock ignores the rest of his statement, his mind focusing solely on John's body language as the older man opens the newspaper to read again.

John is upset on his behalf. John is not upset because of the implications that he's in a homosexual relationship with Sherlock – at the very least, it used to be true, and at the most, it's something he's used to at this point. No, John is angry because the press is going to say unflattering things about _him_ , Sherlock Holmes. 

John is exceedingly loyal, Sherlock knows. And because John usually is in Sherlock's company, any slights against Sherlock will be slights against John. Somehow, Sherlock knows that's not why John is upset.

“You didn't answer my question,” Sherlock points out, steepling his fingers and eying John from across the room. His eyes narrow. “Why _does_ it bother you?”

John lowers the paper and regards Sherlock. Sherlock observes.

“Oh, no,” John says, setting the paper down and pointing at Sherlock. “Don't you even dare deduct me, Sherlock Holmes. You lost that right in Dartmoor.” John is angry now, and the finger he's pointing at Sherlock is shaking.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, continuing to observe as John gets more angry.

“I'll not repeat myself,” he says, reasonably.

John gets up from the couch and paces. This is new – usually Sherlock is the one who's pacing. “You don't get to do this,” he says. “You don't get to make _demands_ of me like this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. “Why not?” he asks.

“Because it's just not something you get to keep doing when you leave someone, Sherlock,” John is full-on agitated now. “When you leave someone you don't have anymore claims on them like that. You don't get to do that. It's _not fair_.”

John flings himself back into the couch, his hands going to his head like he has a headache. It takes a few minutes before Sherlock realizes he's crying.

John is _crying_.

Sherlock blinks and stands, walking to sit near his friend. Hesitantly, he reaches out. “John –”

“Don't. Don't touch me,” John cautions him (he's not sobbing, Sherlock notes: there are just tears pouring from his eyes). “You don't get to do _that_ anymore, either.”

Sherlock sits back and swallows. He feels vaguely ill. “I don't know what I've done wrong,” he says, genuinely confused. John looks like he's going to yell at him when he stops and takes in Sherlock's stricken expression.

“You really _don't_ know, do you?” John says. Sherlock shakes his head a tiny bit from side to side, never moving his eyes from John's face. 

“Sherlock,” John sighs. He rubs his hands into his eye sockets in a manner that Sherlock thinks must hurt. “Sherlock, you don't get to just...dump somebody, break it off with them like that, and keep things the same. You don't get to interfere in my life anymore.”

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat and he leans away from John. 

John looks at Sherlock, really _looks_ at him. For the first time ever, Sherlock thinks he might be observing rather than merely seeing. He _hates_ it.

“You really didn't know, did you?” John says, almost wonderingly. “You thought it was just sex.”

Sherlock breaks eye contact. 

“You thought it was just sex,” John repeats.

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaims, rounding back on the shorter man. “Yes, because that's all we ever did!” He stands up and begins pacing himself. “I broke it off because I knew some day you'd leave me for a woman and I couldn't...” he trails off. “I couldn't bear it.” 

They're both quiet for a moment before John speaks.

“You're one of the most brilliant people I know,” he says. “Genius, really.”

Sherlock scowls at him for stating the obvious. John smiles, a sad little smile, as he stands up and walks toward Sherlock.

“But you know, as immense as your brain is, Sherlock, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes.”

“If this is about the solar system thing again,” Sherlock begins, warningly, when John kisses him.

It's a sweet kiss, chaste, almost innocent compared to the passionate snogging sessions they shared previously. After a few moments, John pulls back and looks Sherlock directly in the eye.

“You're so brilliant, right? So deduct,” John says. Sherlock's brain, however, seems to have fizzled at the first skin-on-skin contact he's had with John for several months.

“ _I_ – what?” Sherlock says, brilliantly.

John chuckles and shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly. “I love you, you _prat_ ,” he says, leaning back in for another kiss.

Sherlock kisses him back, and they sit. Sherlock is sitting in John's chair, and John is sitting on Sherlock's lap, his lips steadfastly refusing to give up their hold on Sherlock's.

It's completely nonsexual, which surprises Sherlock because, really, it's been a _while_. Neither of them seems to want anything more than what amounts to cuddling.

After a while their mouths separate and John curls up on Sherlock's lap. It should be uncomfortable, since he's dug his toes down into the space between Sherlock's leg and the arm of the chair, and he's wedged his head in the nook between Sherlock's own head and his shoulder. Somehow, though, it's not uncomfortable in the slightest. 

He puts his arms around John and sighs, letting his head drop to meet the other man's. They sit there for several minutes, relaxing, drawing strength from one another.

Eventually, however, John's weight on his lap draws the attention of his libido, and John laughs under his breath, nuzzling Sherlock's neck with his lips. 

Sherlock stands, abruptly, curling his arms underneath John, who finds himself suddenly laying back prone.

“Sherlock, what –“ John begins, but he shuts up when Sherlock (still carrying him) begins heading back toward his own bedroom.

He nudges the door open with his foot and slams it shut behind them with the same foot, carefully depositing John on his bed. John looks around with interest.

Sherlock looks at him with his eyebrow raised.

“I've never really been in your bedroom before,” John says. “Not for a decent period of time, anyway. I'm _observing_.”

Sherlock chuckles and kisses him.

It's a long, slow kiss, the kind of exploratory kiss they never had before. Eventually they wind up half-clothed and panting, Sherlock prone over John. 

“Come on, then,” John says, tugging at Sherlock's pants ineffectually. 

“No,” Sherlock says, pushing his hands away. He leans in to kiss him again.

John makes several muffled noises against his lips which Sherlock correctly interprets as, “But why not?”

Sherlock draws back and regards John seriously. “Because I'm about to tell you that I love you and I don't want you to think it's the product of mid-coitus endorphins.”

John stares at Sherlock, mouth agape. The silence between them draws on longer until Sherlock begins to feel self-conscious.

“What?” he asks, fidgeting. Their earlier arousal is forgotten.

John blinks for a second, and shakes his head. “I don't even know how to process this, just...give me a minute.”

“I've just given you several,” Sherlock points out, a little crossly.

“I'm nothing special,” John says. “So I'm just trying to work out how you, Sherlock Holmes, could possibly have fallen in love with _me_ , of all people.”

It's Sherlock who's stunned now, and he stares back at John. Defensively, the shorter man barks out, “What?”

“Nothing special?” Sherlock shakes his head, a chuckle growing in his throat. He lays down alongside John and pulls him to him, holding him in both arms, still chuckling. “John, you have no idea... _no idea_ how special you are.” He kisses him on the top of his head.

They don't have sex, instead electing to lay in bed holding each other and eventually falling asleep.

 

The next morning all bets are off. Sherlock wakes up to an already-hard John kissing him everywhere he can get his lips, which produces exactly the desired effect. They pass the early morning in a haze, of warmth and kisses, caresses and whispered names.

Eventually, they get up and shower together and it's only because John “isn't a young man anymore” that they're unable to do it all over again. John does drop to his knees and take Sherlock in his mouth midway through, however, and Sherlock's vision is gray around the edges for several minutes afterward.

John is walking around the flat in only his dressing gown (because Mrs. Hudson walked in and very nearly spotted him in the nude, making him paranoid. Sherlock would prefer he walk around naked), hair still wet from the shower, when he approaches Sherlock with his cell phone. 

“Not now, I'm busy,” Sherlock says, brushing him aside.

“Sherlock, he's _back_ ,” John says, holding the phone out.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.


End file.
